


Between the Stars, Below the Earth

by Hanatamago



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Banter, Greek Pantheon AU, Hades Yuri, Hades/Persephone AU, Hephaestus Dedue, Hermes Ashe, M/M, Persephone Balthus, Pining, The Romance of Life and Death, almost getting together, but with a twist, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatamago/pseuds/Hanatamago
Summary: Whenever Yuri ventures into the realm of the living, he can’t help but plot his path past a particular verdant grove in hopes of a glimpse of Balthus, god of the springtime. Only this time, a certain someone catches on.Balthuri Week 2020 - Day 4: Sun and Moon
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Balthazar von Adalbrecht | Balthus von Albrecht/Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37
Collections: Balthuri Week





	1. The Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, I lied, I'm back before Day 6. I wasn't planning to write and post this fic, but I just couldn't drop the idea! Balthus is a Disney princess, and I'll hear no objections. He has a strength in singing in-game, too!
> 
> This is a late submission to Day 4!
> 
> \---  
> Sun (@sunmikkyu) made art for this fic!!!!! It's amazing and you can find it right [here](https://twitter.com/sunmikkyu/status/1297657858268389378?s=19)!!  
> 

For the second time this moon, Yuri hovers by the threshold: the convergence of life and death, of winter and spring. He loiters not because it is his duty—truly, duty is the furthest thing from his stars-damned mind now.

Yuri hesitates, watching from the far shadows of the treeline, because he is inexplicably drawn to this place. _His_ place.

‘His’, meaning Balthus. God of the springtime, among littler things. Ruler of every sprout and flower that dares poke through the earth. He is many things, or so they claim. Yuri only knows him by the whispers that make their way across the divided realms. Well, and by watching… He’s gleaned a few things from quiet observation over his past journeys to the realm of the living.

Observations that he shouldn’t be making, mind you, because frankly, it’s wicked. And yet… Yuri leans against a cherry tree at his side, half shielded by its thin trunk. It’s not wide enough to conceal him, but if that was his wish, he could have warded himself before venturing into this terribly bright plane. He should have.

Yuri does not fit here. If it is not obvious by the way that the chittering of ‘cute’ animals (monstrosities, they are) grates at his ears, it is made perfectly clear by how even the dim evening sun will burn his skin if he is not careful.

This world—Balthus’s world—is entirely different from his own. The underworld is harsh and lightless. Sharp tines of obsidian and granite jut out over the endless plains of coarse grey sand where the dead roam. Gardens (if you could even call them that) grow only withering plants and glasswork flowers. It’s beautiful. Cruel, but beautiful. Heh, if it’s fitting, Yuri pretends he doesn’t notice.

And yet, for all its beauty, there are days (and they are _rare_ , but they happen) where he cannot help but long for the light. For the vibrance and warmth of the living. For all its gaudy joys, for all its reckless closeness—

But no, Yuri has no desire to walk among them. He pauses to rest between the cherry trees, to indulge in the briefest of glances at the locus of all this dizzying warmth: Balthus.

Balthus, who rules from his wooden throne and crown of ivy and antler. Balthus, who revels from dusk till dawn with a nymph on each arm (none today—a rarity). Balthus, who currently cradles a fawn in his arms as carefree satyrs fill his court with music.

Ugh, but it _is_ cute enough to melt through Yuri’s frost.

It’s all too much. The sunlight, the music, the man himself. It’s an absurd fantasy and nothing more. A fantasy Yuri hasn’t even untangled for himself. He hates the light. He hates the warmth. He doesn’t hate the living, but he has no love for them either. And Balthus, the very essence of all those things, why should Yuri even think to consider him as anything more than a pain in the neck?

Yet, illogical as it may be, Yuri can’t blame the woodland creatures for cozying up beside Balthus. He does look terribly comforting...

_Stars above._

Yuri sighs. He was here for a reason, yeah? And a far more important reason than _lusting_ after a man. He only ventures aboveground when he absolutely must. It’s merely a coincidence that so many of his rituals of late have called for ingredients from this particular forest.

He has tasks, dammit. Souls to collect, ambered wood and bone to gather for divination spells. Lively as it is, the forest is not always well-stocked with such things, so he might be in for a long spell of wandering. Ah, well, the eve is young, and the sunset will only make his trip more comfortable. 

“Is it true that your blood runs cold?” A deep, amused voice sounds from behind Yuri, startling him out of his aimless thoughts. It is _him_. It is Balthus himself, the improbable icon of life.

“I’ve heard so,” Balthus continues, taking Yuri’s hand in his own. Honestly, he's too surprised to pull away. He goes on, “but, y’know, rumors and all. Figured I’d see for myself.”

“And what do you see?” Yuri nearly stutters. _Nearly_ , because flustered as he may feel, a simple touch isn’t enough to break his composure.

Balthus presses his lips to Yuri’s wrist. They’re soft—softer than he had imagined. And stars, he’d never admit to imagining such a thing, but he has. Dreadfully often.

“Warm enough,” he winks.

Yuri scoffs and finally thinks to break away. He turns aside, eager to hide his quickly reddening cheeks and the insipid fluttering in his heart. Yuri pulls his silk hood down a little further, regretting once again that he hadn’t taken the time to veil himself in mist and magic.

“Gods love to talk, don’t they?” Yuri says, and the icy bite of his tone is only half-feigned. Gossips, the whole lot. “Any other rumors I can dispel?”

“Oh, plenty.”

“Go on, then.”

Why Yuri lets Balthus continue, only primordial beings of time before creation can say. He should not care what they think. He _does not_ care what they think. And yet, it tugs so strangely at him, wondering what else Balthus might have heard.

“A nymph once told me that the titans carved you from moonstone.”

Oh? Not quite the slander he’d expected.

“And did I feel like stone to you?”

“Well, I haven’t felt every inch of you,” Balthus laughs, “You could be hiding your true nature.”

“I heard you were quite charming - must have been a mix up.” 

Yuri forges on through the woods, eyeing the forest floor for little woodland souls fresh for the taking. Animals scurry off at his presence alone. Balthus probably would too, if he knew better.

“Ouch.”

Yet Balthus keeps smiling as if the quip had bounced right off his armor of simplicity. It’s genuine, too. Stars _damn_ his smile. Or don't, because all damned things end up in his domain, and if Balthus's smile were to follow him down to the underworld, he might burst into the aether.

“They said you were the most beautiful of all the gods. More than Dorothea herself.”

“Clearly a lie, and not even a good one.”

“Was it? I’m not so sure.” Balthus grins. "You could always shed some of those cloaks and let me see for myself."

"Ah. Now I see. You reign over nature because you've driven all intelligent beings away."

Yuri glances at the flowers dotting his woods. Sure, the bright pinks and yellows are gaudy at the very best of times, but the muted reds and blues are nice. As the stars would have it, he could never grow anything of the like in his own realm. Only tangled, thorny vines and twisted bonewood.

Balthus notices his gaze. Of course he notices. He waves his hand over a bush, conjuring three lovely lavender roses.

“For your beauty, and for your thorns.” Balthus hands the thin bouquet over, but—

When Yuri takes the flowers, they crumble to ash in his hands. Of course. He knew this would happen, but perhaps, if they were from Balthus, a _god_ … Ah, but it was silly of him to think it’d turn out any differently.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “They were nice.”

He shrugs. “A little ash is good for ‘em, you know. Helps the soil.”

“Heh, well, if you lack ash, I can provide plenty.”

“Is the underworld ashy?” Balthus asks, curious rather than judgemental. “I’ve never been.”

“Not as much as you’d think. Lots of sand and glass... You wouldn’t like it.”

“Try me.” Balthus beams, “Bet I could grow something in the sand.”

“You want to visit the underworld?” The thought is _laughable_ , to say the least. “You’re alive.”

“I’m no mortal.”

“Gods don’t visit the depths by choice either. You won’t find any of your little living creatures there. Certainly no flowers.”

“No grain either, then? What do you eat?”

“Souls,” Yuri deadpans. And by the pale shock on his face, Balthus buys it. “Kidding. Mead, mostly. Sacrifices made to appease me, sometimes.”

“Not, uh... _human_ sacrifices, though… Right?”

“Do you take me for a bloodthirsty tyrant?”

“That’s not—”

“Death comes for all things, in time,” Yuri sighs, “Mortals needn’t speed it along.”

Ah, perhaps that was a bit of a downer. Well… This little trip was a bust, wasn’t it? He’ll have to leave empty-handed. And he’ll have to be a little more careful next time, won’t he?

“I should go,” Yuri says.

“Stay,” Balthus says, “I don’t mind.”

“Ah, wonderful. I so worried that you would _mind_ the presence of unlife in your lovely garden. I’ve a realm to tend to myself, you know. My errand seems to be fruitless, so I’m afraid I’ll say farewell.”

“Stay,” he insists, “I haven’t tired of looking at you yet.” 

His cockiness bubbles right back up, and with a vengeance. If any mention of the underworld had put Balthus off him, he couldn’t tell. And, well, foolish as that may be on his part, Yuri was secretly a little pleased that his morbidity hadn’t scared the man off.

In truth, maybe he should have tried to scare Balthus away. Maybe that would be the right thing to do. Life and death don’t mix—not like this. Perhaps they could coexist in harmony, but… A threshold stood between them, always, by cosmic design.

“Ha. Good thing I’m not here for you, then.”

“Oh? And why are you here, then?” Balthus teases, “Not to bask in the sun, I take it?”

“That’s hardly your business.”

“Is it not?” Balthus crowds him against an old oak. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.” 

Of course, Yuri could blink away, he could easily fade into the shadows and flicker back into the underworld, but… Stars, he’s frozen. Caught. 

“Then you must be seeing things, friend.”

It’s a lie, but he’s a good liar. He’s always been a good liar. But Balthus is too close and too warm. Too disarming in the way his palms slide over Yuri’s mottled, velvet-cloaked sides.

“Why do you deny yourself?” Balthus whispers, “I won’t bite.”

“Deny myself?” Yuri chuckles, cold, but the edge of his words is tempered soft by his sheer _proximity_ —“And what would you know of my wants?”

“I know enough. I know that even _your_ heart beats.”

“Does it?” he cocks an eyebrow, “Perhaps it’s moonstone.”

“Then let’s find out, yeah?”

When Balthus closes the distance between them, it is slow and careful, giving Yuri ample opportunity to flee, but he doesn’t. Stars, of course he doesn’t! How could he?

And when Balthus kisses him, suddenly all those sappy mortal bards’ tales seem to click. Suddenly, he seems to understand the loons who talk of quiet, honeyed words shared between lovers, and firelight between their lips.

“Not moonstone,” Balthus smiles against his lips, “I can feel it.”

“Oh, can you now?”

His warmth is contagious, reluctant as Yuri is to accept it. It’s only because he’s still floating blissfully in Balthus’s arms that he doesn’t protest when the man slips his hood down, baring Yuri’s face to the light. It’s well into the evening now; the setting sun isn’t bright enough to burn him, thank the stars, but a reminder of where he is… of who he is.

“They didn’t lie,” Balthus says, voice soft and smooth as river stones, “Stars, but you _are_ gorgeous.”

As much as he’d love to stay, he _does_ need to get back to the underworld. He’s probably stayed too long already…

“Thanks for the flowers," Yuri whispers, "They really were lovely.”

Time to go, yeah? Before Balthus can protest, he fades into a swirl of inky mist.

“Wait—”

But he is gone. When Balthus reaches out, he’ll find only smoke blowing away in the breeze.

In the blink of an eye, Yuri is back in the underworld. Back in his cold, obsidian palace. Back under the sunless sky and among endless grey planes of sand. Yes, Balthus would undoubtedly hate it here. There is no joy in this realm. No colorful specks of gaudy wildflowers, no soft warmth, and no ceaseless festive music. But perhaps if he were to…

No. Yuri doesn’t entertain the thought. Not even for a moment.

But in the world above, Balthus does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Greetings, Balthus! Nothing to report!” an enthusiastic wind spirit calls, flying down from the heavens “Oh, but I come bearing letters from Olympus. One from—”_
> 
> _“Yeah, yeah. Listen, pal,” Balthus takes the scrolls and stuffs them into his belt pouch, “What’s the quickest way to the underworld?”_
> 
> * * *
> 
> Since this is an AU, I tried something a bit different with the dialogue. I think it turned out pretty well for this particular tale :)  
> If I'm not careful, I'll slip and make this a multichapter, and who needs ANOTHER multichapter WIP on the list...  
> (I do)


	2. Masterwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I slipped and fell and made it a multichapter!

Silver chimes ring out from the west-facing corner of Ashe’s grand pavilion. Pale stonework patterns the floors and lush ivy climbs to the infinite top of marble columns circling his simple throne (a formality, really - Ashe hates to sit around). His temple serves as a meeting place for all the messenger spirits, Ashe king among them. 

Seven arches around the temple’s perimeter act as gates for those who know the way. Four gates of the cardinal directions, one for the celestials, one that leads to the underworld, and one quiet, unobtrusive gate that has never opened.

The chimes herald the arrival of Zephyrus, spirit of the gentle west winds and all the whisperings they carry.

“Greetings, my lord! Nothing to report!” he cheers, “Oh, except that I have a few more letters for you to deliver: two for Lord Nemesis - a few of his mortal lovers seem to be quarreling again, one for Dedue about a masterwork weapon, and one for… Hm, actually, the letter doesn’t say.”

“Hail, how was the springtime court?”- West traveled there last, if Ashe recalls correctly, which he generally does-“Ah, let me take a look at that.”

“Warmer than here! Ah, not that it’s a bad temperature here, but the glades there are truly wonderful! Just the right amount of rain, and you won’t see flowers so bright anywhere else in the heavens! Oh, except maybe in Ingrid’s domain, but her fields are usually full of grain.”

Ashe smiles, mostly to himself. Thank the stars that Zephyrus didn’t question Ashe’s Very Cosmically Important Letter to Balthus, or he would have realized that Ashe just wanted him to take a little vacation. He deserves as much from time to time.

Ashe turns over the faded letter in his hand. The parchment itself is sun-bleached and nearly torn from the journey to his temple. That itself is odd, West is not the careless type, and even if he was, most divine messages are resilient to celestial radiance.

“Hold on, West, is this-”

“A mortal letter!” he beams, “Exciting, isn’t it? One of those clever humans managed to summon me properly, so I said, ‘Well, A+ for effort, but don’t hold your breath on a response.’”

“Wow! That’s amazing!” 

Typically, when a mortal manages to contact the upper planes, things start going one of two ways: either they find some divine inspiration, or they begin quarreling almost immediately about what the message could mean.

“I thought so too!”

“I don’t see an address on the letter either. Did the human say who they intended it for?”

“No, my lord.”

Ashe skims the letter. It’s a standard mortal affair - questions about the heavens and how to live righteously, but there’s a focus on beauty and art too… He’s conflicted between duty and passion. Looking for answers… Ah, and there’s the matter of love.

Well, Ashe doesn’t want to start a war, so there’s no way in heaven he’d send this over to Dorothea.

“Well, perhaps the Muses? Flayn might know what advice to give.”

“Great idea!” West nods. “I planned to head to her garden soon anyway - I’ll take it along!”

“I’ll deliver the others then,” Ashe waves him on, “Don’t let me keep you!” 

Swiftly enough, he dissipates into the breeze. Ever the busy one, isn’t he? Ha, maybe Ashe can send him back to the spring glades to pick up some flowers.

* * *

The flight from his temple to the gleaming realm of the forge god is swift and warm. Though Dedue’s realm is farther north, his forge blurs the thin veil between Olympus and the scorching plane of fire. Balmy winds blow down on Ashe as he nears the forge - it’s no wonder he prefers visiting Dedue to visiting the harsh, icy domain of War.

Ashe lands on the long, copper walkway protruding out from his temple grounds. Brass vines curl around marble pillars and hammered bronze rooftops. The colors may be simple - blushing white stone and shining metal of every kind. Where other realms are lush with wild grapevines and tall grasses, Dedue’s greenery is cast in precious gold and silver. His flowers will never wilt, his ivy will never creep where it is unwelcome. Every leaf perfectly engraved, every branch properly shape, every flower perfectly bloomed...

It is truly beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to the rows and rows of exotic plants he sculpts inside! Ashe could spend days and days exploring his forge - but he has a letter to deliver. So no dawdling! (Not yet, at least!)

Ashe finds the grand doors to the forge locked, which is not unusual. He knocks - no response. Once again - no response. Any other messenger spirit might walk away, or perhaps leave Dedue’s note by the door, but Ashe is not any other messenger spirit, and Dedue is not any other message recipient.

They have a game of sorts. A challenge, actually. After all these years, Dedue has yet to forge a lock that Ashe cannot pick given enough time, and Ashe thrills at each chance he gets to prove himself.

(Ashe is not the patron god of thieves because he relishes in thievery, he simply… He can empathize with the mortals who have no other choice but to steal.

Thieves are not killers. Thieves are thieves. Most steal grain, not gold. And certainly, there should be enough grain on the mortal’s earth to go around, but some are selfish. So others must be thieves. That is simply the way of things.)

All this to say, when Ashe finds Dedue’s door locked, it is not a ward against him, but an invitation.

* * *

When Dedue hears the bell ring in his forge, he knows Ashe has arrived. Dedue slowly extracts himself from the clay of his garden (in which he is currently elbow-deep) and returns to the workshop. He sets aside his carved tools for now. The garden is not yet finished, but it is getting there. 

Ashe cannot see it before it is complete.

“You’re getting much quicker,” Dedue calls. He does not see Ashe yet, but he can feel the flighty god’s presence. It hums on the air like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. Invigorating and soft in equal parts.

“Perhaps your locks are getting easier,” Ashe calls back, teasing laughter laced into his cheerful trill. His silver glow peeks out from the arch to the fiery forge, shining off the terracotta bricks.

“That is impossible. A more complex lock cannot be easier to pick, can it?”

When Dedue enters his workshop, he is greeted with Ashe’s beautiful presence. It does not simply greet him - it floors him, truthfully.

He is vibrant, he is _lifelike_ (because he is alive, of course, unlike Dedue’s sculptures). He is agile and spontaneous. He is all the things Dedue cannot create with his own hands: perfect imperfection. Lovely chaos twinkles in the stars spotting his skin. Motion in the way his unruly hair twists at the very ends. Enchanting whisperings in his bright, sage-colored eyes...

Where all the less fair gods drape themselves in gold and ivy, Ashe shines silver, and it is a stunning sight to behold.

Of course, he does not speak this aloud. He dares not mention how his heart yearns for Ashe, not Dorothea. Half for his own safety (Dorothea is not a weak woman), and half for the unsettling thought that hammering his thoughts into words may scare Ashe away.

“Is it?” Ashe laughs, light and nectar-sweet, “Perhaps I have achieved the impossible.”

“Perhaps,” Dedue murmurs. And there is nothing else he can think to say, because the words all seem to flee from his tongue when Ashe beams up at him.

“It is good to see you, Dedue.”

“Likewise.”

Dedue does not often get letters, but Ashe somehow manages to find reasons to see him anyways. Updates on the meetings of gods that he rarely attends (it is better for everyone this way - he cares little for petty romantic affairs). Stories from mortal heroes set about god-given tasks. Detailed accounts of balls and festivals that Dedue would find terribly boring coming from anyone else’s lips. 

And of course, Ashe brings him all the most perfect flowers from the world below the heavens. For recreation, perhaps, but Dedue could never mimic the sweet aroma of the blooms, nor the velvet-soft feel of their petals. But he is content with his still garden all the same. This is his domain.

“Ah, I have a letter today,” Ashe rummages through his pouch and comes up with a small scroll bound with a navy ribbon. “From Lord Dimitri.”

“About his lance, I gather.” Dedue gently takes the scroll and skims over the contents. 

He was correct. Areadbhar will be a masterwork, there is no doubt, but the details are still yet to be hammered out - literally. The metal is decided - umbral steel and thorns of black sand, yes, but the pattern is a complex one. A blade mimicking bone. Many other gods carry similar weapons - the bone pattern itself is no problem, but Dimitri is particular about his weapons, as any aspect of the War should be.

“You’re the last of my messages for the day,” Ashe hints. The busy messenger god has time to spare, and the forge does get stuffy from time to time.

“I see,” Dedue answers. Ashe’s intent may be clear as the sunrise, but Dedue will not give away the game. Perhaps it seems cruel (really, it is harmless teasing). Dedue simply likes to hear Ashe speak his thoughts plainly.

“Will you walk with me?” Ashe asks with a small, shy smile. “I’m sure the fires won’t dim while you’re away. And I have stories to tell. Ah - I know you must be busy, of course.”

“I have plenty of moments to spare for your stories.”

Dedue gestures to the grand, hammered steel arch leading out to his temple’s grounds. Ashe grins and leads the way, taking Dedue’s hand in his own. As ever, Dedue follows gladly.

* * *

Dedue returns to the forge not long after their walk. It was pleasant. Though he rules over the forge, he does sometimes miss the crisp natural air. He quite fondly recalls the groves of maples in Ashe’s domain, slightly different each time he visits. But of course, he must eventually return to the forge.

He is never gone for long. Not, as Ashe may have suggested, for fear of the fires dying out (keeping the hearth burning is Mercedes’ domain, and she has never once let his forge fall to embers), but for the fact that the forge is his home.

The forge is quiet. The forge is solitary. There is no one to pester him (or if they do, they enter on Dedue’s own terms). No one to disturb his crafts, and no one to question his wordless rituals of crafting.

Metal bones for Dimitri’s bloodthirsty lance, copper for the intricate vines Dorothea has requested at her temple, and pure runic silver for the smallest project of all.

Silver, for the thin wings of the littlest bird Dedue has ever crafted with his too-large hands. A swallow. Ashe’s swallow. It is a small, energetic thing with lovely, gleaming feathers and an amber-cast heart. Subtle runes engraved on the feathers (engraved by Mercedes, because she is far better with such minute details) keep the silver from tarnishing. Hammered scales reflect the light in different colors at each angle.

Clever things that mimic life - that mimic his alluring imperfections. Dedue smiles to himself as he carefully notches the last tail feathers between the copper gears that bring the construct to life. It is not ready yet, but it is close. Closer every day that Ashe visits, bringing his enchanting fragments of life into the forge with every letter and story.

No, perhaps he will never be able to capture _Ashe_ in his work, not in full. But just an ounce? Just a small bird, beating its wings at the pace of Ashe’s own heart... Perhaps that much, he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Twitter :)  
> [@hanatamagos](https://twitter.com/hanatamagos)


End file.
